Her Scottish Dancing Feet - Poem by Alistair Graham
The plates are empty, bellies are full.
Christmas dinner; later everyone leaves.
Me and Lucille, sip our drinks with the Pogues.
I'll not be working on boxing day.
I mention this to Lucille - she says,
"You're a lucky dog, I am back tomorrow."
She sets her glass on the fireplace.
She goes at it like a crazy animal
under the gaze of a hunters eye.
She invites me with her
outstretched arm to join her.
I play hard to get.
I stand my ground and stay seated.
She jigs her body towards me.
I lose the battle and dance.
The dogs watch from the arm of the sofa
two ejits clobbering the living room boards.
Passers-by look through the window, twice.
I imitate Lucille as she lets-loose
on her Scottish-dancing feet;
she learned her lesson as a child.
I promise to pick her up
the following day at work.
"I'm too good to her, " she says.
I say, "it's a good job I get my wages
a week early every December."
She agrees; but by January's end?
I catch a breath and pour another
single malt from mother-in-law,
and a Morgan Spice from the larder.
Later we collapse
into a Fairytale of New York
on the shag rug, in front of the fire.
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